


The Hunger Games: An Evolution

by RJames



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Gen, One Shot, One Shot Collection, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-03-19 14:56:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13706802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RJames/pseuds/RJames
Summary: The Hunger Games became the highlight of any Capitol citizen's calendar; but such glory is not simply given. It is earned. A series of one-shots detailing the evolution of an execution ceremony; from a punishment to a game.





	1. The First Execution

Year One  
Victor: Jack Tyler (D3)

 

I don't remember many details about life before I was five. Everything flows together in a manner that makes distinguishing dates nearly impossible. I guess it's a good thing... They say there was a lot of suffering.  
I do remember the day that the war ended; when connections with Canada were cut off, and Mexico's borders destroyed. I remember this day specifically because it was the day they declared peace.  
A new nation, Panem, rose from the ashes of North America and became a shining beacon of hope for all survivors. We entered a period of bliss, working together to rebuild our home, and remember those that we lost. We were harmonious for a single year... Until the District borders went up, and we were cut off from one another. My mother, who was on the other side, never came home.  
I realized pretty quickly that no matter how hard my father and I tried, food would be scarce for a long time to come. But we continued, taking each day as they came. Until I was fifteen, and the world crashed around me for the second time. I lost my father and went into hiding with my professor. I was fifteen, hiding in an underground bunker and eating from a can, when an entire District was destroyed, and the nation fell silent. The war was over.  
I am sixteen now, and nothing seems real anymore.

One month ago, the Treaty of Treason was signed, without anyone quite knowing what it meant. Life continued in a sense of normality, obscured only by the swarms of peacekeepers patrolling the streets, and the hollow grief that followed your every step. I was sure nothing more would come of it, until a few days ago- I can't be sure how many- when a program was scheduled for mandatory viewing at six o'clock. It was then that the nation learnt the consequences of one month prior.  
"As punishment for the rebellion," The Capitol’s head peacekeeper read, "and to serve as a reminder that a rebel knows no kin, each year from this day forth, the various Districts of Panem must offer up, in tribute, one young man and woman between the ages of twelve and eighteen, to fight to the death, until a lone survivor remains."  
You can't quite imagine how people would react to something like this until it actually happens. I had expected some kind of outrage- more riots, even- but throughout the whole of my District, there was silence. We knew that despite how hard we disapproved, there would be no chance of overcoming the Capitol this time.  
So we sat, and waited through the commercial break, for the names to be drawn. Then the anthem played, just like it was any other government broadcast.  
District 1 was first; Mack Bryans, 15, and Taylor Finch, 18. Then Paul McAllister, 13, and Sarah Odell, 14. They allowed no time to process the information, allowing only a moment's pause before revealing the next child's name and face. It was such a short moment that I hardly noticed when I saw my own ID photo flash across the screen; Jack Tyler, 16. I only realised what had happened when the blue-eyed Lili Freimeyer, 16, from District 5 appeared on the screen.  
I guess everyone around me realised before I did, as when I looked around, I was being watched by everyone, as if they were doctors and I carried a deadly disease. All night I was avoided, not even my best friend spoke to me too much. It's quite sad that the last thing I'll remember of her is the back of her head.  
I'm dreaming now, I know it. Images flow before of my eyes in a thick, honey-like fashion. I see my mother, going to visit her brother in the morning and not coming back. I see my father, lying in the street, his back a canvas of red. In between each image is my face, filling one side of the television screen, for all of Panem to see. One of the first twenty four.  
And then the images stop.  
I wake up.

When my eyes open, I am blinded by the hot sun high above. I feel stone below me- no. Metal. I get onto my knees. The unobscured sun hits my back with such force that I'm already sweating. About twenty meters to my left a girl I don't recognise is standing, looking around frantically, trying to get her bearings. A scar covers the side of her face- presumably from a burn. To my right, the girl from 1 is crying, curled into a ball. I can feel my whole body trembling. Where are we? How did we get here? The last I remember is going to bed in a fit of terror, exactly one hour after hearing the terrible news.  
I have to think- this is a puzzle, just like anything. With a clear head and logical thinking, there will be an answer. There has to be. Someone across from me, the boy from 7, I think, has only just woken up and begins to shout wildly. He sees the girl from his District and calls out to her, "What's happening? Where are we?" Even at my distance, I can hear the panic in his voice. I notice that we're all standing on metal platforms, with a two meter diameter- the boy from 7 seems to be arguing with himself about whether or not he should step off of it. "Wait there!" I hear him call, "I'll come to you!" He takes a step, ignoring the shouts of protest that burst from a number of children around him. He is gunned down the moment both his feet are on the pavement.  
It is then, with pounding heart and terrible shakes, that I notice the two other children- one boy and one girl- lying, covered in blood, away from their platforms. "Rule one," I tell myself, "Don't step off your platform."

The gunshots came from one of the two hovercrafts suspended in the air above us, hanging neatly above two towering buildings. The platforms, the gunshots, the announcement on television, these things don’t seem to connect in my mind. Why we’re here, where we are; I don’t understand. Until I notice the number 13 emblazoned on the tattered tapestries hanging from the buildings.  
We are in the ruins of District 13.  
Without warning, a voice begins counting down, starting at sixty. I don't want to realise what it's counting down to, but I do- the televised announcement coming back to me- we will have to kill each other.  
Bile rises in my throat; do they really expect us to do it with our hands? Surely not. I would rather step off of the platform. It is then that I see what has been right in front of me the entire time, and what my brain has been trying to ignore: the long rack, in the centre of the ring of tributes, holding twenty-four finely polished guns, of all shapes and sizes. "Forty. Thirty-nine. Thirty-eight."  
Okay. Think. I can feel a tear roll its way down my cheek. If you all agree to work together, we can avoid this whole situation. It's only logical. Even I don't believe it.  
"Twenty. Nineteen. Eighteen." The girl to my right won't stop weeping. I notice her outfit. Why is she wearing that? Why is she we- Oh.  
I look down at my own attire, and I can feel the bile once again. We're wearing the rebel military uniform.  
The capitol lady's words fill my mind once more, a rebel knows no kin. How nice of the Capitol to make our execution a symbolic once. To them, we are the rebels of 13.  
"Ten. Nine. Eight."  
I can't move. Even if I wanted to, I'm sure that my legs wouldn't move. I make eye contact with the girl on my left, the blood is drained from her face.  
When the voice reaches zero, a siren sounds throughout the city square, almost deafening.  
I'm not sure what I expected to happen- I'm not sure what anyone did. Practically stumbling, the twenty other tributes step down from their platforms, confused as to what our next move should be. One boy, with stick-thin arms and olive skin, doesn't stop like the rest of us- he continues to stumble towards the guns. "Hey- wait! Stop!" It's the boy from 4, trying to regain a sense of order, and unity, "Look we don't have to-" his words are replaced by a spray of blood. The hovercraft has shot him down. The olive-skinned boy only falters for a moment, but then he quickens his pace.  
It is his hurry that starts the chaos. Suddenly, no one wants to be left without a gun. We all run forward, the girl on my left faster than she looks. Amidst the commotion I notice the hovercraft’s edges blur, disappearing. It has vanished by the time I've reached the rack.  
We all push against each other in an effort to get our hands on a weapon; a brute of a male grabs a girl by her hair and flings her aside, like she is nothing more than a doll. Finally, my fingers clasp around a handle, and I retreat as quickly as possible.  
With my back turned, I can only hear the sound of the first gunshot, and the cries of pain that follow. Within moments, gunshot after gunshot sounds through the air; but I don't stop running, I can't stop.  
I pass a billboard, and am set to continue sprinting, when I see several heads in the near distance, distorted ever so slightly. When I figure out what it is, I stop dead in my tracks. Inching my way forward, as if being called by the grinning faces in front of me. I reach out a hand.  
The smooth surface tingles ever so slightly with power. A force field. I peer through, and am disgusted by the array of Capitol officials who sit behind it, watching the bloodbath unfold. One of them points behind me, a drink in the other hand and a smirk on his face. I don't take the time to look, running away as fast as I can.  
Throwing a look over my shoulder, I see the girl with the scar aiming her gun at me. Now I'm the one whose blood has drained.  
At long last, I arrive around the corner of a building, out of the girls sight, and take a moment to catch my breath. The gun I picked up is a small handgun, hardly enough room for twenty three bullets.  
I don't allow myself time to panic- I'm still too close to the bloodbath. So I keep running, along the side of the building and up rubble-covered roads. My heart is pounding in my chest, I can feel blood pulsing through my neck. Dust flies up when my feet hit the ground, and my knees threaten to buckle with every step.  
I can't do this, but I have to.

Suddenly, I notice that I'm running without any cover- any buildings that may have stood here once have been burned to the ground. The ring of platforms are in my direct sight, and so are the bodies. Two, four, eight, twelve. How many have we killed already? At least half of those who came in are dead. At least.  
There are no further gunshots though, and I can see the remaining few tributes running in different directions. The crying girl is still on her platform, a flower of red blossoming across her grey uniform. She never even got up.  
Maybe this will be the only year, I think, maybe people will realise that this is completely barbaric, inhumane, and just plain evil. Maybe, just maybe.  
The sound of a cannon has me tumble to the ground. It goes off again, and again; nineteen times.  
With the silence that comes after the nineteenth cannon, I finally allow myself to cry. In the shade of a wooden door- miraculously still standing in its frame- I let sobs wrack their way through my body and up my spine. I can hear someone telling me that I'm going to die here, but then I realise that it's my own voice. I am going to die here, alone, and at the hands of another child. No one will lift a finger to stop it. There is nothing I can do.

Before nightfall, there are three more gunshots that echo through the District, and three accompanying cannons. Through simple maths, I know that that means it's just me and someone else left alive. I don't feel hope though- if I haven't pulled my trigger once yet, can I really expect to pull it now?  
Sleep doesn't welcome me into its embrace that night, so I watch the stars fade one by one until the sky is awash with pink and blue. Even then, I don't want to move, because if I move then someone will die.  
The decision to get up and move isn't up to me, it would seem, because soon I hear movement near me. My heart stops. It's coming from several meters away. It is not the sound of someone moving with a purpose- it's more like they're wandering aimlessly. It is the sound of someone who has been moving for hours without a break, and now wants nothing more than to just sit down. As if they read my mind, I hear the thud of someone dropping to their knees.  
Slowly, carefully, I prop myself up on my elbows, the gun gripped tightly in my right hand. It's the large boy who threw aside the girl during the initial scramble. He is crying, softly, to himself. His gun lies at his feet, and he holds his trembling hands in front of his face. I hear him mumbling quietly.  
We sit like this for a few minutes, he, completely unaware of my presence. Whatever this boy has done, it was because we were forced to. We didn't choose this.  
I'm about to drop my gun when I see the hovercraft appear in the distance, two large guns dispatching slowly from the wings. The message is clear: one of us must die.  
The other boy looks up slowly, but he doesn't move towards his gun.  
"I know you're there," I jump at the sound of his voice, barely a whisper, "I can't... I can't do it another time... Please just.. Please..." I watch him, sitting there, not moving. I try to think of something to say, anything, but no words come. How can I do it? The hovercraft gets closer, and I can hear the engines rev louder, as they start the motors for the weapons, "Just do it!" He's yelling now, and he turns to face me- his face red, streaked with tears, "Do it now or we'll both die!" I can't believe it, my mouth hangs open. "Do it!"  
Time slows down, and I can feel everything; the beating of my heart, the engines whirring above us, the sun heating the rubble below me. I know that if I do it, I survive. He won't put up a fight. I could do it, with only one life on my hands. One life.  
It is at this point that I know that this year won't be the last. The proof is in the ground that I run across, the ruined buildings around me, the District that was burnt to the ground.  
I squeeze the trigger.


	2. The Only Way Out

Year Five  
Victor: Ingrid Bell (D6)

 

I’m dreaming. I must be, for where in District 6 do we ride in hover crafts, strapped to metal beds while surrounded by peace keepers? I must be dreaming, because the world around me is fading in and out of darkness, morphing from the hovercraft, to a stark white room where I lay naked, a woman moving beside me, sorting through a rack of clothing. I am surely dreaming, because when the scene changes once more, I am on my side, staring out across a sea of shifting red sand. Only this time, the scene doesn’t change, and I know that I am awake.  
It's with this visual of the tumbling dunes and ever-changing ripples of sand, that everything floods back through my mind. The televised reaping, the orphanage, quiet, as we waited with dread lining our stomachs. My name, flashing across the screen: Ingrid Bell.  
Tears burn the backs of my eyes impulsively, but I bite my tongue in protest. I must be calm, I must focus. There’s no point in arguing, or trying to defy the game. Five years have taught us how this works; we kill each other, or they kiss us. One quick glance upward and I can see the hovercrafts hanging in the air, poised to fire.  
“Isaac!” I sit up, searching for the voice, “Isaac!” I find her, two platforms to my left, calling out to the boy directly across from me; my heart drops, remembering the raining down of bullets that occur every year when someone leaves their platform too early. Will he go to her, and become the first death in this year’s execution? She, at least, has not left her platform.  
I watch as the boy finds her in the ring of tributes, “Lavinia!” He calls, making the girl laugh- or is she sobbing? I can’t tell, but it makes me wonder how they know each other. Are they friends? Lovers? Or are they simply classmates? Their familiarity makes me think it’s the former, and it is enough to make me search the ring of tributes for my own district partner. Luckily, I find no familiar face.  
Everyone is awake, struggling to their feet or already standing, and on cue, the booming voice Panem has heard every year begins the countdown. “Sixty. Fifty Nine. Fifty Eight…” Do I try and race to reach the guns first? Or do I risk running, and trying to hide, armed only with hope that I’ll stumble across a discarded weapon some point tonight? Something, instinct perhaps, tells me that if I don’t get to guns first, I won’t live long.  
Silence settles across the ring of District children, broken only by the girl, Lavinia’s occasional sobbing. I make myself think; where are we? Why has the Capitol chosen this place? Why was it special during the rebellion? I spin around, trying to make sense of the arena, when I see it. It stands perhaps half a mile away, but its grandeur isn’t at all diminished by the distance. The Wall, separating the old America from whatever lay beyond.  
I was yet to study it at school when the rebellion struck, so why it was vital the two nations were separated, I am unsure. What I do know, is that the rebels used it as a camp during the initial stages of the war, positioning themselves atop the wall and along the base, in hopes that whoever was on the other side might hear the war and come to their aid. No one came, and the rebel’s air force was defeated, leaving them vulnerable and without escape from the Capitol hovercrafts that rained bullets down on them from above.  
“Forty. Thirty Nine. Thirty Eight.” I can see the other tributes deciding how to act; and know that I must try. Their uncertainty is my advantage. It isn’t until the siren sounds, and I am running as hard as I can toward the rack of weapons, that it occurs to me how clever the Capitol must feel. How easy it was for them to make the Districts turn on each other, and think of only their own survival.  
The other tributes must realise that their lack of decision on where to run has lead to their downfall, for I can see many stop in their tracks, and turn the other way, realising too late that to reach the guns in any position other than first means their death. I, however, am too close to give up; to turn around would mean receiving a bullet in the back. So I keep running, trying to ignore the boy to my left who looks a few feet closer than me, his arm already outstretched.  
My heart beats hard against my chest, and blood pounds in my ears as I watch the boy reach the guns and grapple with the first weapon his hands touch, my own feet still so many steps away. But something is wrong; it’s too large, too heavy for him to manoeuvre into place, so when I do finally get within reach- my fingers closing tight around the handle of a much smaller hand gun- I have pulled the trigger before he’s even figured out how to hold it.  
The moments that follow pass in a blur. I pull the trigger five more times, hitting a younger boy no older than twelve, and a sick looking girl who must be approaching eighteen. I do not know if they are dead; I can’t afford to stop and make sure. Gun shots fire loudly around me; screams follow. At one point or another, I am aware of seeing the retreating forms of Lavinia and Isaac heading off into the distance. Is it brave, or stupid, to keep a friend at your side when only one can walk away?  
All the confusion and panic I feel melds into one, pushing my feet forward away from the gunshots. There aren’t as many as there have been in the past; perhaps because more ran away from the fight this year than usual. It’s with this thought that I realise what this means, and turn my body to look over my shoulder just as the bullet whizzes past my body. It’s a boy- I don’t know where from- the large complicated looking firearm pointed right at me. I waste no time- zigzagging my path in as complicated a manner as I can. Luckily for me, my freedom of movement is undeterred by a larger weapon, and I make good speed.  
Canons fire as I run; one, two, eight, twelve, fourteen gunshots in total. Fourteen of us dead. Were the two that I hit among that number? There had been a lot of blood. I suppose I’ll never know.  
My sprint becomes a jog, and then a walk, and soon it is a slow, silent dragging of the feet. The meals served back home are small, hardly containing enough calories to keep us moving through to the next meal, so it’s no wonder my body feels racked with exhaustion. I’m heading toward the wall; I’m not sure why. There’s bound to be shade, and in this desert of an arena, where water seems to be non-existent, shade is the best I could hope for.  
While I walk, the desperate and pained expressions of the three tributes I shot play in my mind. If my bullets hadn’t killed them, surely they would have bled out by now. That’s three; three deaths to my name. If I survive, what will those back home say? I would be the first victor in District 6; there is no precedent to their reaction. I’ll be an outcast from the kids at the orphanage, a killer in the eyes of those who walk the streets; what other labels will fall beneath my name?

As I approach the wall, it’s size and grandeur looms larger than I had imagined. My foggy thoughts struggle to piece together ideas as to why it was constructed so many years ago; whatever lay on the other side must have been really terrible if a wall this size needed to be constructed.  
I’m so delirious that at first I don’t see them; they appear as no more than two boulders amongst others. Focussing, though, I can see that they’re people- a girl and boy. Lavinia and Isaac. They’re not that far away; I could throw a rock at them if I tried, probably even shoot them, if I had the energy to raise the gun, but they haven’t noticed me. Lavinia’s crying- weeping, really- a gun sitting at her feet. Poor thing. Though I suppose we’re all in the same boat.  
It is then that I see the body, another stone’s throw away from her; blood seeping through their grey rebel uniform. I want to comfort the girl, as I do with the younger children when they first arrive at the orphanage back home; but this is an execution, comfort would likely not be welcomed by those watching. Already, I’m conscious of the fact that a hovercraft is likely sitting above us, preparing their own weapons to gun us down for not taking aim soon enough.  
What do I do? I know that I should shoot them, end their life and save mine. But I’m mesmerized by her tears. Never have two tributes from one district expressed that they know each other so well, nor have two tributes- from the same district or otherwise- stayed together as, dare I suggest it, allies.  
I watch as Lavina lifts up the gun and holds it in her hands. How did it go down, I wonder? Was there a fight that lead to her pulling the trigger, or did she wait until the tribute’s back was turned? Perhaps it was her first kill; the first time she’s ever ended someone’s life.  
What happens next stuns me, the moments passing so quickly before my eyes that I am not entirely sure what has happened until the two have taken their last breath. Isaac, turning to Lavinia and caressing her cheek once, takes the gun from her, and after studying it for a few moments, lifts it slowly to his head and places the end in his mouth. Lavinia’s shock perfectly replicates that which I feel; her eyes wide, and a protest forming on her lips. Yet what she might have said, the world will never know, for in an instant, the hovercraft appears above, guns already exposed, and shoots Isaac over and over. I don’t even hear her screams, as brief as they are, for once Isaac has fallen, the bullets turn to her.  
I am on the ground without knowing how I got there, my vision swimming. Their uniforms are red, their faces contorted in the expressions of pain they felt as their heart stopped beating, throwing my mind back to the war, when bodies like this littered the streets.  
He just wanted to get out of here; end his own life. Die his own way, by his own choice; but they took that away. And Lavinia, she didn’t even know what Isaac was doing- anyone could see that. But his actions had punishments for everyone around him. That must be the message here. Suicide is not an option. We will die at the hands of another tribute, another child. Dying our own way is just another thing the Capitol has taken from us.


	3. A Public Reaping

Year Eleven  
Victor: Derek Palmer (D10)

 

It’s at twelve thirty that I join my family and step onto the bus toward the city centre. It’s full, everyone living in the city’s outskirts having to find a way in. We stand in the aisle, avoiding eye contact with those around us; my father stares ahead, gripping my mother’s hand with his mouth set in a firm line. I don’t have to think too hard on what they could be thinking about; after all, it’s what we’re all thinking about, isn’t it? The reaping. The Execution.  
I make eye contact with my brother. He is still too young to understand the full concept of what’s happening today, and what happens every year, but he’s not stupid, he understands that today everyone needs to be quiet, just like when we walk past the memorial on the way to school. He’s only eight, but he already understands that once a year, two children go away and don’t come back.  
The bus rattles and groans with each stop, weighed down by the children and families that wait like fish within a net, slowly being pulled toward the surface, and hence, their death. Sweat trickles down the back of my neck, and my hands have grown clammy. Perhaps if this were like last year I would be calmer, because at least then I was at home, and could hide from everyone if I had too. This year, though, it was announced that the reaping would be a public event, held before the justice building and televised for the nation to see. The reason behind this isn’t a secret- the death toll has well exceeded the expected two each year, due to the number of families executed for trying to hide their children- but even so, the thought that the Capitol is doing it only to further exploit us lingers in my mind.  
The journey passes quickly, the scenery through the windows changing from the bare land where we package and ship away the stock, to the seaside complexes where the District’s fishermen live when not away on fishing trips. Until at last, we are driving through the city centre and trundling toward the justice building.  
The crowds of those walking to the reaping grows, until the bus is forced to stop, and we alight, joining the queues of people waiting to register their attendance. The space is too small, we stand too close together; so close I can hardly breath. Peacekeepers shout out commands, yelling at those who step out of line. I am just thinking that issues are bound to occur with everyone in such close proximity, when an outburst of shouting occurs somewhere in front of us. I crane my head to see, and catch a glimpse of the white peace keeper uniform wrestling with an older boy I recognise from school. “Keep your eyes down, Hanna.” My mother places her hand on my shoulder, and I proceed like everyone else, with a forced ignorance.  
As we reach the front of the line, and have our blood used to sign our identity, I am directed away from my family and toward a roped off section marked with a 15. Never have I seen so many from my District gathered in one place; the executions held here in the square are compulsory to attend only for those directly related to the prisoner, and the mayor has only ever requested adults attend speeches. Today, though, the air has grown stuffy from the sheer mass of bodies forced together. Girls push up against me as they cling to their friends in fright, but I can’t see anyone I know nearby. I am alone.  
Our bodies are slowly pushed closer together, until I am forced to tilt my face to the sky to smell the sea salt and escape the claustrophobic nature of the crowd. I squeeze my eyes shut, focussing on the sound of the gulls in the air, and searching for the comforting sound of waves that can usually be heard from this spot. With the immense amount of people though, I am forced to listen to the sounds of their harsh breathing and the occasional muffled sob. That is until, at last, Panem’s anthem is blared from speakers surrounding us and I am forced to open my eyes and stare ahead- to do otherwise is to risk prosecution. The tension in the crowd only grows- the music is too loud, the peacekeepers, too many. When the anthem ends, we wait without hardly breathing.

It isn’t until the doors of the justice building open, and a row of military officials step out, that the reaping truly begins. They line up in unison, their blue Capitol armbands bright against the stark white of their uniforms. A woman emerges last, her face unreadable. She takes to the microphone and reads out the Treaty of Treason, before standing to one side and indicating to the large screen, “For this the eleventh Execution, the male tribute from District 4 is…” Names and faces flash across the screen, too fast for me to register them as anyone I know. But steadily they slow down, and one by one the faces become recognisable. James, who lives two doors down from me, and Phillip, who I know from school, are just two that stand out. Everyone holds their breath, waiting for the cycle to stop on the selected male tribute, until at last, “Michael Tanner, 17.” I don’t recognise him, so I assume that he works in the boats. A murmur spreads from the back of the crowd, and the screen shows a shot of two peace keepers walking toward the boy and escorting him to the stage, his hands swiftly cuffed behind his back. When he reaches the stage, the faces start flashing across the screen once again, “The female tribute from District 4 is…” I don’t watch the faces, instead looking down at the twisted rope bracelet around my wrist, tugging at it nervously. My heart is in my throat, my stomach fluttering anxiously- it can’t be me, it can’t be me. “Yasmine Brown, 15.”  
It’s not my name, so it takes a moment before I realise why everyone is moving out of my way, and why a set of peace keepers are marching in my direction. Yasmine Brown stands beside me, tears already trickling from her eyes, begging her friend to let go of her arm. I know her from school, she’s one of the brighter students, certainly on the path to work in the justice building. Not anymore, I suppose.  
“Let go!” I hear her tell her friend. It didn’t matter, the peace keepers arrive and wrench her friend away aggressively, cuffing Yasmine’s hands tightly behind her back, as if she would try to run. When she passes me, I meet her eye, but can’t think of anything to do. Smiling didn’t seem right, and to reach out comfortingly would seem strange; to her I am surely just a stranger. So instead I just watch as she’s lead up to the stage; I watch her struggle to hold a straight face as the anthem plays; and I watch her back as she’s lead inside. I watch with the rest of Panem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something a little different this chapter! I'm certainly intrigued by how the games evolved outside of the arena, just as much as within, so let me know what you think of this the first publicized Reaping! I'll be exploring different aspects of the Districts in future chapters, but there will be plenty from within the arena too, so fret not! Thanks for reading!


	4. The Hunger Games

Year Fifteen  
Victor: Terrance Xavier (D1)

 

Celeste Montgomery posed for the paparazzi with an effortless sex appeal, turning her body to catch each flash of the camera, and ensure that they caught on her best features. A look over the shoulder here, a glance over there, a slight parting of the lips- this was her life now, and she was lapping it up.  
"Celeste! Celeste look here for just a moment!" She blew the photographer a kiss, creating a new wave of demands,  
"Yes do that again this way!"  
"Just here too Celeste!"  
"Once more! Once more!" And so, once more she thanked her lucky stars for making film director Brad Bomer enter her boutique and ask her to audition for his latest film: Chasing Carter, a suspense-filled blockbuster about a group of Outlanders who manage to break through Panem's borders and steal the President's daughter- played by Montgomery. It was an instant hit, and her name was soon signed to several agencies- acting and modelling. She became the one to know. Girls wanted to be her, and boys wanted to sleep with her. It was just the position she desired.  
"You're making Freida regret going behind you," She jumped, hardly noticing Brad come up behind her. She felt his arm loop around her waist, and they posed for photos together. Glancing to her left, she saw Freida Carter- who had allowed Celeste to be photographed before her while she waited for her husband- with her arms crossed, scowling  
"I don't know what you mean," She laughed, and allowed Brad to pull her to his body tighter.

Too soon she was gliding along the red carpet away from the photographers, her designer gown trailing behind her. A small part of her regretted the several glasses of pre-party champagne she had drunk a half hour earlier- the excessive alcohol being one of the few things accompanying her new lifestyle she struggled to handle. Her vision blurred just slightly and she was incredibly conscious of how high her heels were. She would be fine, just as long as she avoided the dance floor for at least another hour.  
Brad, who had been pointing out various names and faces around them, suddenly stopped, and faced her- "I'm sorry- I should have warned you," His eyes were wide,  
"What is it?" Her hands instinctively flew to fix her hair,  
"It's that reporter- Wendy Cooper- she demanded to talk to you tonight and we couldn't refuse, I'm sorry!" Celeste couldn't help but laugh,  
"What's there to worry about? I heard she's lovely!"  
"Oh yes- she's lovely alright- but definitely not the one to talk to if you aren't experienced with the press-"  
"Oh come on, Brad, I'll be fine!"  
"No, really, Celeste, you have to listen- to say she doesn’t like celebrities is an understatement. You could say she hates us!"  
"What? Why would she think that?"  
"There was a tape leaked a few years ago- covered up quickly but it was out long enough to ruin any chance she had of making it on screen. Now she's taken the opinion that we're all vain, conceited, and not worth the attention," Celeste felt her heart deflate- she was suddenly worried,  
"What do I do?" She whispered- now seeing the woman behind the director, walking towards them purposefully, microphone in hand and camera man following closely behind.  
"Just take your time in answering- think long and hard about your answers- the silences will be edited out so you'll look fine, but this way you can stay safe with what you say."  
"Okay, okay, I understand." She took a deep breath, and smiled at the woman, who had arrived at their side. When the reporter greeted them, Celeste couldn't help but raise an eyebrow- her voice was nothing but nasally, and her nostrils seemed to flare with each syllable,  
"Good evening Bomer-" she nodded to the man, "I trust you aren't going to stay and interfere with my interview."  
"No, no I was just leaving." Before he walked off into the flashing lights and calling faces, he gave Celeste a small smile of encouragement.

"Celeste," A smile was plastered across Wendy's face- so big that the actress could see the crystals in her back teeth, "Now that it's just us girls, let's talk, yes?"  
"Of course, Miss Cooper."  
"Oh please, please- call me Wendy..." When she said her name, it was much more of a drawl that a clear word; Celeste smiled at her.  
"So, tell me," She grabbed the camera man's arm and wheeled him into position, "How's the life of fame treating you?" Brilliant, Celeste thought with a smile, an answer I don't have to worry about  
"Oh it's absolutely fabulous! I wouldn't change a thing!"  
"I was going to say- you do look like you're having fun!" The actress felt herself relax, realising that Brad must have been exaggerating- this Wendy was fine! "What do you like most about your new lifestyle?"  
"Oh, an easier question would be what don't I like, you know?" She began to laugh, but stopped when she realised that the reporter had remained quiet.  
"Well if you think that'd be easier... Do tell," Celeste faltered, not knowing what to say  
"Oh- well- you know."  
"Do I?"  
"Well- no- but well."  
"Celeste please, take your time, it's only the whole of Panem watching here," Her face became a grimace with laughter, and Celeste, stumped for words, spoke before thinking,  
"I guess the fans are the worst part,"  
"You don't like your fans?"  
“No I love my fans, I do."  
"But you just said-"  
"Yes but that's not what I meant-"  
"Then what did you mean? Surely you don't take this for granted?"  
"What? No I didn't say that-" She could feel her scalp prickle anxiously- she needed to get away from this reporter- she was panicking. "I just meant that it can all be a little much sometim-"  
"Well if that's the case are you sure you're ready for this type of life?"  
"Of course I'm ready!"  
"Just not for the fans."  
"Exactly- no- no I'm ready for everything- you're not being-"  
"Celeste please," Wendy threw up her hands defensively, beaming, "No need to panic, it's just us girls talking." She waved over a caterer and took a glass of champagne for the both of them, "Just relax," Celeste's glass was empty in an instant.

The next few minutes were torturous- Celeste, her heartbeat pumping in her ears, stumbled over every word, and Wendy, never taking a moment to break from smiling, fired out questions without pause. The actress felt herself sliding down a long path away from stable mind, feeling the effects of the alcohol more now that she had beforehand.  
Finally, the reporter began her goodbye, "Before I leave you to party, Celeste, I just have to know: how was it playing a part in a story so sensitive to our nation today, especially seeing as the film premiered just days after the nation's Fifteenth Execution?"  
"Oh it was fine-" shit "well- no- it was definitely hard watching them, of course-"  
"But you didn't see it as something special?"  
"Oh, no- I mean- yes- wait-"  
"Did you watch it?"  
"Well- yes- we have to-"  
"We being..."  
"Well we all do. But my friends and I-"  
"You watched it with your friends?"  
"Yeah- we had a party and watched it- had a laugh, you know?"  
"You... had a laugh?"  
"Well we were partying- so yeah- not that we found the Games funny or anything."  
"I beg your pardon?"  
"We didn't find them funny,"  
"No, no, dear, what did you call it?" The world seemed to skip a beat. Wendy, her eyes wide, was smiling larger than ever, and Celeste, her heart broken, could see any redemption from this experience disappear before her eyes,  
"Oh- just- a joke- it was nothing..."  
Wendy winked at her, "Oh, dear me Celeste, I thought I told you it wasn't just us girls... We all heard you. The Games? What kind of game is it, come on, you can tell me..." She was ready to turn right around and run off to Brad, call on him to fix her mistakes- when an idea occurred to her. She could just pass the blame- isn't that what celebrities always do? Pass on the blame to another?  
"It was my friend- Audrey McKenzie- she named it."  
"Named it what, dear?"  
"The Hunger Games-"  
"The Hunger Games?"  
"Yeah- because they're hungry, you know- The Districts. I thought it was insensitive, but she insisted-"  
"Thank you, Celeste, that's all we have time for," One final smile, and the reporter was gone. Celeste allowed herself a sigh of relief, knowing that it could have gone far worse that it did. She said a silent prayer that someone else screwed up worse than she had, but then she realised how quiet it had become. No one was calling her name- or anyone's, for that matter. Looking up, she saw that there wasn't anyone looking at her either- instead, all eyes were pointed at the large platinum screens above them, broadcasting the night's events. It was there that she saw what had them transfixed- from her red lips, to the silk hugging her body, it was the star of Chasing Carter, hardly standing straight, covering up her mistakes with giggles- drunk. Words scrolled across the bottom of the screen- too fast for Celeste to make it out at once. But slowly, they came to be understood.  
****  
"Rude. Loud. Drunk: Celeste Montgomery mocks nation with _The Hunger Games_."  



	5. A Stonemason's Idea

Year Sixteen  
Victor: Mags Rowland (D4)

 

Markus remembered the day Demetri took his first steps. It was such a dark day, ash filling the sky, coating the world in black and grey. Those brave enough to face the streets struggled to make it through without lining their lungs with the death that filled the air. They were in a bunker below ground, bellies bloated with starvation, no communication with those above ground. Surviving was no longer the priority; having the children survive, that was all anyone thought about.  
On this day in particular, one of the other children wouldn’t stop crying; she was the youngest, born when the War was at its worst. It was one of the worst pains any of them had ever felt; being so hopeless that they could hardly help a baby stop crying. Her mother held her in her arms, rocking her back and forth; it was all she could manage- her arms being so frail. Demetri had sat by, watching it all, silent. He surely understood to some extent what their situation was; there could be no other explanation for the way he had acted.  
Markus hardly remembered how it had happened, only that it had; how one moment, Demetri had been at one end of the bunker, silent, and watchful, and the next, his legs were carrying him across the room toward the mother and child, his only toy clutched in his small hands. Perhaps it had been because everyone was too tired to react, or perhaps it was just shock, but no one moved; everyone merely sat and watched as young Demetri toddled over and handed his only possession across to a weeping mother and child.  
Today, Markus once again found himself watching his nephew without the energy to move. Demetri was older now, a boy of fifteen, but that was still too young for this war. For this game that the world had to watch. His face filled the screen, crying out in agony, trying hopelessly to free himself from the net that suspended him in the air. It was to no avail, he was losing too much blood, and energy was rapidly seeping from his body.  
Markus, safe in District 2, had been watching his nephew with the rest of Panem for the past hour, his fight with the girl from 4 too important to miss. Even now, when the fight was so clearly over, the screen continued to flash from the trapped Demetri, to the girl who had severed the artery in his leg, Mags. She was on the screen now, running as fast as she possibly could away from the boy she had just killed, any tears she might be shedding hidden by the layer of blood and muck that clung to her face.  
Demetri, his sweet, kind, young Demetri… Dying. It seemed to drag on forever; his struggle with the ropes. The cameras had made sure to capture every moment, from when he dropped his knife, to when he at last closed his eyes, unconscious. It wasn’t until his skin became the colour of bone, and he gave one last shuddering breath, that the canon sounded his death, and the cameras finally pulled away.  
In the silence that followed, Markus hardly knew how to react; his family was all gone, he was alone. Wiping the solitary tear that rolled from his eye, he stood, picking up his sledge hammer on the way, and stormed out of the office.  
This was just the way things are now, he thought, he had no reason to be angry- it would achieve nothing. He could achieve nothing. Swinging open the office door, the sunlight that glared down at him blinded him temporarily, but not soon enough for him to miss the way that everyone on the ground below him looked up to gauge his expression. He ignored them, determined not to let them see his tears. He had to appear strong. Even now, he was sure the peace keepers standing by were watching him carefully, ready to stop him from aggravating a crowd.  
Down the stairs and back to his station. For the first time, he was glad of the thick glasses and headgear they had to wear whenever in the quarry; it covered his face. Wasting no time, wanting to hit something- needing to hit something- he brought the sledge hammer high in the air, before bringing it rushing down to the stone slab before him. Again and again he hit the slab, a spiderweb of cracks spreading out until it was no more than a handful of chunks waiting to be shipped off to the detailing sculptors. He moved on to the second slab, and the third, and the fourth, taking out his anger and grief on the stone before him. Others were surely watching him, keeping their distance in case he decided to turn the hammer onto them. Even the peacekeepers weren’t coming over to inspect that he was keeping the stone chunks within the required size range.  
He didn’t stop though, not until his arms trembled and his shirt was soaked through with sweat. Straightening, he allowed himself one final, solitary sob, before breathing in deep. Demetri was gone. He had to accept that. He couldn’t dwell.  
Looking around, he spotted a group of the younger workers, had they known him? Would they spare a thought for Demetri tonight when watching the recap? He watched as they expertly swung their hammers down with precision, their arms toned with muscle. They could hardly be older than seventeen, yet each swing hit its mark. Beneath his grief, Markus felt something stir.  
Demetri had died because he had been caught off guard, not because he was unskilled- only two days ago he had won in a fight of hand-to-hand combat! He had been strong, and more than skilled here in the quarry. Just as skilled as Mags had been when crafting the net. How long had it taken her? An hour? Maybe even less; and setting the trap- why that had taken no time at all!  
Markus looked around him, ideas forming in his mind quickly, too fast to focus on only one. In this worksite alone, there wasn’t a single tool that couldn’t be used as a weapon, and there wasn’t one person working here who couldn’t handle it perfectly. The children of District 2 are trained for their profession early on, learning just how to handle the tools and equipment during school, so that when they do finally enter the workforce, there are no injuries due to mishandling. So how hadn’t that come to play during the Hunger Games? An axe is no different from the hammer he used now- not really. And a sword, well there are surely only a handful of degrees of separation between it and the tools they all used every day... Surely.  
His mouth had gone dry, and not for the heat. If he were to do this... It would be dangerous, for him and everyone involved. If they were caught... He shuddered to think about the consequences. But if it worked- and it would surely work- there would be no more Demetri’s in District 2. If he could just... And he most certainly could... Well District 2 would never have to worry again. The children would win. Their children would win…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Slowly but surely the Hunger Games are evolving into the competition that we all know, what do you think so far of its beginnings? I'll be trying something new over the next few chapters by introducing some continuing storylines, so let me know what you think of them when they come!  
> Thanks so much for sticking around this far, it means a lot!  
> -RJ


	6. 6. The Midnight Meeting

Year Sixteen  
Victor: Mags (D4)

 

The night was dark, and the air hot. Beads of sweat prickled along Demetri’s scalp, and rolled slowly down his back, offering little relief from the stifling warehouse in which he stood. All was quiet, except for the heavy breathing from all those around him, and the muffled sounds of impact coming from the middle of the room.  
He was angry- full of a rage that had fuelled his body since Markus had died. His body had arrived the day after Mags had been crowned Victor, packaged neatly in a wooden box, his skin even more pale than it had looked on the screen when the canon had sounded his death. Before that, he hadn’t been sure he would go through with this insane plan of his, but now- now that Markus’ body was beneath the ground, never to return- now that he had nothing to lose, he could do anything.  
He watched the two girls before him with narrowed eyes; they were tired, and letting it show. Their movements were slow, and sloppy, they were letting in blows that could have been easily deflected otherwise. Siobhan, tall and muscular, was sporting a bloody lip, and her dark hair had fallen loose of its braid, now whipping around her face with each movement. She stood at least a foot taller than Taylor, and was far more effective with her punches, so it wasn’t much longer until the shorter of the two fell to the floor with a thud.  
“You just died.” Demetri called, watching Taylor struggle to her feet, wincing in pain. He looked over at Zeke, too tired of watching the same thing happen to come up with anything new to tell them.  
“Next time don’t forget to move your feet.” Zeke told the girl as she joined the group, “Your agility is your strength.” Having won the 9th execution, Demetri had figured it would be wise to seek Zeke’s help in this challenge of his; he had been only too eager to assist.  
Before him, Siobhan swayed on the spot, her eyes downcast; this was new to him- did he continue to push them? Or did he allow rest? They had been training three nights a week, for three months, and though most of them were from working families, he knew that the quarries were feeding them ample amounts when at work, so why were only a small handful of them improving? He shook his head at Zeke, not knowing what to do.  
“Alright everyone line up!” The kids looked up at Zeke’s order, each looking just as tired as the next. “None of you are taking this remotely serious enough!” He barked, “You’re tired, we know. But this is now, as the Captiol calls it, a game. A game with only one winner!” He stepped forward, turning to face the small crowd. “If you don’t start acting like players then you will die. There’s no question. And if you die, then District 2 loses yet another life. Your families will suffer; your friends will suffer; we all will suffer. You need to start acting as if your name has already been called!” Slowly, Demetri saw determination return to some of the faces, “You all have an advantage that the other districts don’t; you have me. So buckle up and do as you’re told! Do you understand me?” There was a murmer of agreement, but it wasn’t the answer he wanted, “I said: do you understand me?” His voice bounced around the warehouse, shocking everyone.  
“Yes!” They all shouted in response,  
“Yes Sir.” He corrected. “You will start acting like victors, or you will die. Now go, get some sleep, and if you’re not fully rested the next time I see you, then don’t bother coming back.” With that, Zeke turned his back, and began packing down the few tools they had littered about, Demetri hurried to join him. “How’d I do?” Zeke whispered when he had joined him,  
“Perfectly.” He whispered back, his lips turning.


End file.
